


clinging onto the words you'd spoken

by diets0dasociety



Series: saudade [2]
Category: 5 Seconds of Summer (Band)
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Car Accidents, Character Death, Depression, Gay Luke, IF YOU THOUGHT MICHAEL'S WAS SAD, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Lots Of Sad, M/M, PREPARE FOR A WORLD OF PAIN, Pansexual Michael, Self-Harm, Straight Calum, honestly the saddest fucking thing ever
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-15
Updated: 2016-02-15
Packaged: 2018-05-20 20:46:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,823
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6024265
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/diets0dasociety/pseuds/diets0dasociety
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There was nothing worse than waking up alone, Luke had learnt. The cold that crept around his exposed skin was harsh and unfair, and he longed for soft porcelain arms to engulf him in warmth once more. The untouched pillow beside him that his eyes just couldn’t leave begged to be used again, begged for the unruly tangle of dark hair that had been his first hello on a morning and last goodbye in the night for as long as he allowed himself to remember. Luke was lost and drowning in the loneliness that had consumed him. And he fucking hated it.</p><p> </p><p>or, Luke hasn't been okay for six months.</p><p> </p><p>2/3 of the Saudade series.</p>
            </blockquote>





	clinging onto the words you'd spoken

**Author's Note:**

> okay so a few people said they'd like a continuation of this, and honestly I was just begging for an excuse to write Luke's POV so here we are! this will probably make very little sense if you haven't read you're the crutch that keeps me standing, so go do that first.
> 
> title once again taken from Gone by Boston Manor, and fic is once again inspired by the same song. I've decided to name the series 'Saudade' which is the name of the EP Gone is on, and also a Portuguese word that hasn't got a literal English translation but sums up a lot of the feelings felt by both Michael and Luke.
> 
> I hope you love this as much as I do. I also hope you cry. Have fun.

There was nothing worse than waking up alone, Luke had learnt. The cold that crept around his exposed skin was harsh and unfair, and he longed for soft porcelain arms to engulf him in warmth once more. The untouched pillow beside him that his eyes just couldn’t leave begged to be used again, begged for the unruly tangle of dark hair that had been his first hello on a morning and last goodbye in the night for as long as he allowed himself to remember. Luke was lost and drowning in the loneliness that had consumed him. And he fucking hated it.

 

It had always been that way; his unashamedly clingy nature meant he bathed in the love and affection of others as often as possible, even if that led to ignored responsibilities and the fatal thread of codependence that spun around his little finger oh so delicately. The power of his heart surpassed the sensibility of his mind at every opportunity – his mum used to tell him to wrap his arms in bandages if he was going to wear his heart so dangerously on his sleeve – and it had become his most beautiful quality and quietest flaw in equal measure.

 

_“Morning, sleepyhead.”_

_“Y’know, I’m pretty sure you could sleep with every one of my friends and I’d still come crawling back the second I heard your morning voice.”_

_“Oh, cool, let me call Cal…”_

_“Arsehole.”_

Life wasn’t particularly fond of Luke Hemmings, he’d decided a long time ago. The ache in his bones that came with waking up in strange beds in strange hotels in strange towns was a permanent yet unrelenting pain that had seemed to taunt him every morning for six months. Every day was the same – he’d wake up at sunrise to silently grumble about the flimsy hotel curtains that plagued his sleep, then proceed to gaze out of said curtains in a haze of thoughts about what the day would bring. He’d shower quickly – never more than ten minutes to avoid the existential breakdown that accompanied warm water hitting his back – then repack what little essentials had been removed from his suitcase before retrieving his phone, wallet and two crumpled polaroids from whatever stained and sticky bedside table had been provided.

 

After the short walk to the hotel lobby – Luke requested a room on the ground floor whenever possible – he’d smile politely and gratefully thank the gloomy receptionist for the night, paying whatever extortionate fee was expected and striking up the same pointless conversation about the nearest good English breakfast. The receptionist would pretend to be interested, always suggesting a nearby Wetherspoons that was no doubt brimming with drunken locals by 11am, and quickly end the conversation by sliding over the receipt and wishing him a nice day. Luke would scan the slip, double checking the price as a meaningless precaution, before smiling to himself and meandering to the beat up Toyota Yaris that would be parked as close to three spaces left of the entrance. The door would jam on his first attempt, and he’d have to manually turn the key before he could slump into the front seat and breathe. The routine was exhausting - a choreography of false happiness and polite bullshit that tired Luke out more than his four hours of sleep a night ever would – but anything was preferable to change. Luke had seen enough change to last a lifetime.

 

The polaroids folded in his pocket always came out just that little bit more crumpled than before, and Luke couldn’t even pretend that every fragile line didn’t break his equally fragile heart. He memorized every detail every day, cautious and careful as he waited for the moment that the paper would tear and every memory he was trying so desperately to hold onto would crumble beneath his fingertips. He memorized the happiness in the matching pair of cerulean blue eyes that shone from the first picture; a window that reflected a past that should’ve been the present. He memorized the crinkle in his own smile and the smooth complexion of the boy beside him, memories of his envious teenage days and the constant light-hearted teasing about his acne now painful to even think about. He memorized the flash of his mother’s blonde hair as she escaped the frame, and a smile grew unwillingly on his somber face. If he focused, he could still hear the aggravation in Jack’s voice as he shouted at her to _“Stop ruining the photo, Mum.”_ and _“Oh my god, Dad, can you distract her please? I’m trying to take a photo of my darling fucking brothers.”_ That day seemed so close yet so far, almost in touching distance if not for the impenetrable wall that had appeared between. It was a bitter kind of happiness that he felt as he memorized that first polaroid; a longing for a sense of completion ruined by one catastrophic night and one careless driver who never looked back.

 

There was no bitter happiness from the second polaroid. No oxymoronic questioning of emotions, no conflicting battle against the past and present. There was only sadness and longing and the deepest of holes in his heart that screamed _“I miss you”_ and _“I’m so alone.”_ Luke tried to memorize the soft glow of the sunset in the background, the intoxicating blend of browns and golds in the sand that framed the centre of the picture – but it was impossible to focus on such minor beauties when literal sunshine was so close. Luke memorized the reflection of pure, unadulterated happiness that practically radiated from beautiful emerald eyes. He memorized the soft curve of pink lips that formed a breathtaking half smile as it took in the sight of the ocean before him. He memorized the porcelain skin, turned raw by the power of the sun and the embarrassment of putting on sun cream. He memorized how the boy in the picture was the embodiment of happiness; the embodiment of peace and love and everything that made the world feel whole. Luke memorized the love of his life, sitting in the sand and watching the sea and being perfectly and completely content. He wondered if he could still see that today.

 

_“You’re gonna get burnt if you don’t let me do it.”_

_“Luke, there’s so many people. I don’t want them staring at what is essentially foreplay.”_

_“You’re disgusting.”_

_“You love me.”_

_“So much. Now turn over, your shoulders are red.”_

_“I’m a grown man, Luke Hemmings. I am choosing to suffer the consequences of my actions.”_

_“Don’t come crying to me when you can’t sleep tonight.”_

_“Like we’ll be sleeping anyway, babe.”_

_“You are the worst and I love you.”_

 

Luke wasn’t happy, that much was certain, but he had grown to find a certain sense of freedom on the roads that connected his nightly stop-offs. It was funny, in a sort of not-at-all-funny and more morbid kind of way, how the one thing he frantically avoided for so long became the one thing that kept his sanity in sight. Luke remembered the need to stay away from the road that led to months of longer, colder journeys that never felt longer or colder when he was hand in hand with the only thing that mattered to him. The paths through forests and abandoned car parks were frightening and tiresome but the boy beside him was illuminating and energizing and one smile from him could turn a tumultuous trek into a dance through a meadow. Long walks over canals and under bridges burnt acid through his muscles but one touch from _his_ cold hands or kiss from _his_ warm lips soothed every wound he’d ever felt.

 

But his walks had long since been cut short and there was no need for aches to be dulled – at least not physically – anymore, and so the road became the anchor of his suitcase life. There was a hole in Luke’s chest that wasn’t filled by long drives on cold tarmac, but it didn’t feel quite as invasive as it did before his travelling began. And yes, maybe he’d spend hours crying in a ditch by the side of the motorway every time he passed a wreckage, and maybe even the mention of one particular town or one particular road on an abandoned sign or on the lips of an unassuming receptionist sent him into a temporary recluse – but no good ever came without bad. That was one thing that Luke had learnt very quickly.

 

The wind that powered through the window and into flat blonde hair was a more effective wake-up call than caffeine had ever been. It was one of the first things he’d learnt to avoid – coffee, that is – when he left; unsweetened it was a too bitter taste on his tongue, but adding sugar meant tasting everything he’d left behind. He could never get it quite right anyway, never enjoyed the taste unless the mug was handed to him with a kiss on the cheek and a chipped plate of pancakes that were always slightly undercooked but in the most heartfelt way possible. He’d replaced coffee and pancakes with water and grapefruit now. It was healthier and tastier, in a weird sort of way, and he had more energy, yet still he longed for that accompanying love that you couldn’t taste in a fruit salad. There was no home in a bottle of water. There was no home for Luke anywhere, anymore.

 

_“So, you know you live here right?”_

_“Um, yeah? What are you getting at?”_

_“Well you see, babe, I never actually asked you to move in.”_

_“And? You expect me to pack up and go because I didn’t get a formal invitation?”_

_“Nah. I love that about us.”_

_“Love what?”_

_“The informality. The spontaneity. I kind of love everything about us, Luke.”_

_“Me too.”_

_“I love our home.”_

_“I love you.”_

_“God you’re fucking soppy.”_

Hours on the road seemed to turn to seconds with the window down and music blaring. There was only ever one album – Luke “forgot” to ever buy anymore – yet somehow every listen felt like the first. Sometimes, he accidentally-on-purpose left repeat on and lost himself in Track 4, torturing himself with memories of road trips listening to that song and that song only, declaring it theirs and prematurely deciding that it would be their first dance. It was naïve, it was stupid, it was beautifully optimistic – it was everything they were and everything they stopped being.

 

“I’m happy wondering.”

 

It was painfully ironic, Luke decided as he sang along, how the words to the song they always adored so much turned out to be so horrifically wrong. Luke wasn’t happy doing anything, much less wondering about what could’ve been and what should’ve been and what may never be for the two tragically broken souls that were so hooked on each other. He knew it was stupid, how he still fought to listen to it even with tears in his eyes and a crack in his throat, but it felt like the only connection he had to _him_. Some vain hope buried deep within him hoped that maybe that same song was playing from the shitty 2002 CD player that sat next to the bed in the apartment he so dearly missed. Luke wondered if it was even still there, or if someone new had come along and updated the old and broken piece of junk with something modern and fresh and exciting. He totally wasn’t using it as a metaphor. Absolutely not at all.

 

By 1:30pm, his next night’s sleep reared its ugly grey head on the horizon, looming over the streets in all its despairingly intimidating glory. It was no different from any other building Luke had taken residence in for the last six months, yet somehow the weight on his shoulders felt entirely greater as he pulled into the third parking space on the left of the entrance. This was the last hotel on his list; the final destination on his loop of uncertainty that had taken him six months of going nowhere and doing nothing. It was the grand finale of his journey of self discovery, a 184 day long drive that shattered every last piece of his already broken glass exterior and melted the very core of his self. This last hotel was it. But Luke wasn’t going to let that change his routine.

 

_“Are you happy?”_

_“I’m not sure.”_

_“What can I do to make you happy, Luke?”_

_“I’m not sure.”_

_“Not sure about much these days are you.”_

_“I’m sure that I love you.”_

_“I love you too. Endlessly. Unconditionally.”_

_“I love you more.”_

_“You’re gonna get better, Luke. You’ll be fine. We’ll be fine. We’ll move on together.”_

Luke’s phone was used almost exclusively for two things – hotels and takeaways. It was a laughable combination, something you’d expect from some backpacking gap year student whose thirst for adventure won the battle over their thirst for nutritious food, not from a boy intent on making himself better. He rarely ate the food he ordered, usually having a few bites and binning the rest before mentally complaining about how much money he just threw away, yet he continued the daily phone calls to whichever greasy establishment was closest. He was sure it was the epitome of his ridiculousness, the boundaries of his pathetic behaviour, that he liked ordering takeaways just to hear the variety of voices and accents that spoke back to him on the phone. But company was something Luke couldn’t go without, and even if it was a thirty-second phone call with Abdul from Balti Bazaar or Joe from Tony’s Pizzeria, it was better than the nothing that was the alternative.

 

Luke often found himself perched on the edge of a stiff hotel bed mindlessly scrolling down his call log, searching for his last real connection. He knew when it was – his meaningful conversations were rare and treasured – and it took exactly three and a half minutes of casual scrolling to find it. Four months, seventeen days and twelve hours ago. 2am on a warm April night. The vibrations started just after he’d fallen to sleep, and in his sleepy haze he reached for the body beside him and asked him to politely _“Turn your fucking phone off, arsehole_. _”_ It took all of ten seconds for consciousness to return and for Luke to remember that he was alone. Again. As always, these days. But the vibrating continued, and he slipped one hand to the bedside table in a blind and frankly pathetically effortless attempt to cease the noise. A careless finger in his still-sleepy state was all it took to break the silence with his past.

 

“Luke?”

 

The speakers of his phone were crackly and quiet, but the sound of his name was deafening to Luke. The voice was familiar, but not the familiar that would break his heart and send him sobbing to the floor. No, it was the familiar that started an ache in his chest but still brought a smile to his face at the sheer surprise he could hear in the voice when he answered.

 

“Cal?”

 

A brief silence.

 

“Holy shit. You’re alive.”

 

Luke couldn’t help the laugh that fell from his lips as expected tears fell from his eyes. Calum Hood’s voice sounded like what used to be home, what used to be his weekends spent surrounded by everyone he loved and loved him. His words were explicit and uncensored and so fucking Calum.

 

“Yeah, Calum, I guess I am.”

 

The conversation continued slowly; hushed whispers and promises that they were both okay and not at any great danger and would see each other again even if it was ten years from then. But just minutes into the call, an unfamiliar noise broke the content little smile on Luke’s face. It was unfamiliar in its complete emotion, in how raw and painful and gut-wrenchingly sad it was. It was not unfamiliar in pitch or tone or person.

 

Luke could recognise _his_ voice through the shittiest speaker in the world.

 

“He’s awake,” The sadness and regret in Calum’s voice resonated with Luke long after the phone call ended. It was sadness that he had to go, sadness that Luke wasn’t there and sadness that _he_ couldn’t join in on this miraculous conversation.

 

“I guess I’ll go.” Luke remembered how the tears that had halted in his temporary happiness flowed freely as he said goodbye, “I’ll see you soon though buddy. Only four months or s-“

 

“ _What?_ ”

 

A brief silence.

 

“I wasn’t meant to tell you that.”

 

“Six months? That’s all you’re gone for?” There was a careless optimism in his tone that worried Luke like nothing else.

 

“Don’t tell him.”

 

“Believe me, I couldn’t. He’s broken enough as it is.”

 

And Luke was pretty sure he was just as broken. If not before, then after Calum’s voice had faltered, and an unmistakable intoxicated muffled plea of _“Luke, baby”_ came from the quiet voice in the background.

 

Yeah, Luke was pretty god damn broken too.

* * *

 

Half a cheeseburger and a portion of fries later, Luke had all but forgotten the painful memories of his last check-in with Calum Hood (and _him_ , by default, but that goes without saying). It was 2pm, and the barely-working hotel TV that stood precariously in the corner had just whirled to life as the opening credits of Come Dine With Me rolled across the screen. Luke had seen this episode before. The old guy with the glasses and the tie that was covered in trigonometry puns won, even though his dessert looked pretty damn awful. It was a crème brulee, but he’d gone a bit overboard with the whole brulee part, which Luke found kind of sweet, in a creepy old guy kind of way. He could practically taste the dessert on his tongue when they started to eat; memories of a very one-sided night of cooking and tasting a whole host of Come Dine With Me based dishes flooded to the forefront of his thoughts, and the ghost of a smile passed over his lips as he remembered.

 

_“This tastes fucking good.”_

_“Well I am an excellent cook.”_

_“No, like seriously – this is incredible.”_

_“Alright, Luke, don’t come all over the clean kitchen.”_

_“You’re gross.”_

_“Yeah, but you love me anyway?”_

_“Only for your incredible culinary skills.”_

_“And my big dick?”_

_“I hate you.”_

_“Well I love you anyway, Lukey.”_

He felt the first unavoidable tear on his cheek as the episode came to an end. Another haunting side effect of everything he once enjoyed, another stark reminder of the loneliness that completely enveloped him. It was a different reminder that day though. The tears that fell uncontrollably from his eyes were a reminder of everything that he might’ve ruined, a reminder that things could never be normal again, a reminder that he might never find the only person he was returning for. Bitter sobs cracked his throat, juxtaposing harshly with the jovial end-credit music that filled the room, as Luke remembered that the family house would still be empty and the room two doors down from his would still be empty and the grave in the cemetery would still be full. Luke remembered that Ben would still be dead and Jack would still hate his guts and his parents would still be in some remote location and not care that Luke would be back where it all began. He wondered if anyone would care. He wondered if anyone would remember the broken boy that left six months ago to be less broken, and was finally coming back in a million more pieces than before.

 

His second shower of the day always surpassed the ten-minute existential breakdown boundary, but that was kind of the point anyway, Luke had decided. He’d leave the water a little cooler the second time and just think, somehow squeezing a tiny drop of shampoo from the cracked and faded bottle he kept in the bottom corner of his suitcase. Luke was pretty sure it was making his blonde roots darker – it was _“specifically formulated”_ for black hair, after all – but the faint smell of liquorice and dye that lingered on his fingers long after it was rinsed away comforted him like nothing else could. It was home, warmth, love, _him_ ; Luke had never been very good at letting go completely. He never liked to think about it, chose to actively ignore the fact, but there were pieces of _him_ in everything he did and he wouldn’t have it any other way.

 

After soaking in the cool water for a little while (usually half an hour, sometimes as long as 90 minutes), Luke knotted the flimsy white towel - that never really seemed to effectively dry him, instead irritating his delicate pale skin – around his waist and settled down for a long evening of shitty TV and naps that never lasted any longer than ten minutes. He couldn’t possibly keep his eyes closed when the images that flashed behind his eyelids were so painful.

 

Fire. Twisted metal. Blood. Lifeless blue eyes staring back at him. Screams of his name from people who loved him. The sound of his own two feet hitting gravel too fast, too soon to know where they were going. Black funeral clothes. Spit hitting his cheek. Fists hitting his cheek. Screams of _“We needed you”_ and _“Coward”_ from the only brother he had left. Soil stuffing his airways. Tears clouding his vision. The pain of loss and suffering and grief.

 

Light. Porcelain skin. Love. Shining emerald eyes staring back at him. Whispers of his name in the middle of the night. The sound of his own lips touching bare skin softly, sweetly in a silent declaration of want. Banana pancakes. Fingers brushing his cheek. Hair nuzzling his cheek. Sighs of _“I love you”_ and “ _Babe”_ from the only person he had left. Content lingering in his mouth. Love blinding his vision. The pain of love and infatuation and need.

 

Dark. Sharp razors. Loathing. Pained cerulean eyes staring back at him from the mirror. Shouts of his name from outside the bathroom door. The sound of blood dripping to the floor in rivers, waterfalls that were running too fast. White bandages. Tears skimming his cheek. Fingers gripping his cheek. Pleas of _“What are you doing?”_ and _“Stop, Luke, I love you”_ from the only person who cared about him. Blood stains on his skin. Unconsciousness shrouding his vision. The pain of guilt and sadness and depression.

 

Luke couldn’t sleep much at all these days. Luke couldn’t do much at all these days. 

* * *

 

2am came quicker every night; in that last hotel, it took seconds. The practically translucent curtains draped across the window that did an oh so terrible job already were torn in six places, letting in harsh streams of moonlight that would have been disastrously disrupting to Luke’s sleep if only he could fucking get any. Any other night he’d bask in the silence of the early morning, maybe take a couple of pictures of the moon that would come out fuzzy and faded but still recognizable enough for the oddly soothing pseudo-scrapbook that poked out from beneath his small collection of beanies. It was only takeaway menus and scraps of maps and polaroids taken out of narrow hotel windows slapped between the hollowed covers of a Stephen King novel that Luke hadn’t had the heart to get rid of when it fell apart, but it became somewhat of a diary for his six month journey. It filled in the gaps between gas-station receipts and time-stamped parking tickets just enough to make every day that tiny bit more memorable. Luke had no reason to document anything, but it felt right. And Luke had learnt to start following what felt right.

 

_“I missed this.”_

_“Missed what, babe?”_

_“I don’t know. Just feeling this, feeling sort of happy.”_

_“You’re happy?”_

_“Sort of. I’m always happiest in your arms. It feels right.”_

_“My arms are always yours to be in, Luke. In ten years, in one hundred years.”_

_“They’ll be pretty bony in a hundred years.”_

_“True. But I’ll still be yours even then. Six feet under, my heart still belongs to you.”_

_“You deserve so much more than me.”_

_“You are so much more than you believe.”_

_“I love you.”_

_“I am completely and unconditionally in love with you, Luke.”_

Luke’s eyes began to slip at around 2:30am, like always. His eyelids were heavy and uncomfortably warm, with the remnants of tears sticking to his bottom eyelashes. There was a certain nausea that accompanied his descent into sleep, a foreboding ache in his stomach as he prepared to fall into the same nightmare that had plagued him for six months.

 

It was exactly the same. The scene identical to how he remembered it; tranquil night sky parallel to the tumultuous storm that was raging inside the apartment. It felt painful. It felt real.

 

“Where are you going?”

 

The stammered question broke his goddamn heart every time he heard it. _His_ voice was scratchy and broken and oh god if Luke had to listen to the pain that was so evident in his words for any longer he’d break down right there.

 

“I’m leaving, Michael” And, fuck, the words burnt his tongue as they left it. It was like a punch in the gut, a knife to the throat, a bullet straight in the heart. He knew he had to, but he knew he couldn’t. Not when those beautiful green eyes looked so fucking sad. Not when _Michael Clifford_ , the love of his fucking life and the only person who had ever meant anything to him, looked so lost in front of him. He couldn’t do it. But he had to.

 

“N-no, no…”

 

“Michael, I’m broken. I told you, I’m broken and I need to fix myse-“

 

“ _NO YOU’RE NOT.”_

Luke couldn’t tell if the floor shook when Michael dropped to his knees. He couldn’t tell much of anything, but his heart was drooping and aching and the tears were running freely down his cheeks and _oh god_ the pain was fucking excruciating. His wrists ached and blood was seeping through his shirt and he just had to run he had to get out of there he had to save the love of his life from himself.

 

“I love you, Michael.”

 

Breathe, Luke.

 

“I love you so much, I can’t stand it. But I’m broken, and you’re broken too, and we can’t ignore that anymore. I’m sorry. I love you.”

 

He knew it was stupid, how his fingertips couldn’t help but reach out for one last touch. The warmth that usually radiated from the cheeks he spent so many nights kissing was gone, and the sound that ripped from his throat as he took his hands away was disgusting and cracked and raw. He could barely hear the pleas as he walked to the door. He couldn’t hear. He couldn’t breathe. He couldn’t see.

 

“Luke, please.”

 

“I love you, Michael.” It felt like a goodbye. It was a goodbye. The tears were choking him; he was drowning on his own fucking sadness.

 

“Y-you said… you couldn’t l-live without me.”

 

And he had. Luke had said it so many times and he meant it. But he wasn’t planning on living without Michael, he was planning on surviving and rebuilding and letting Michael survive and rebuild so they could live with each other in their hearts and minds before their physical bodies. But how was he meant to explain that through tear clouded eyes and a mouth that could barely speak a sentence without numbing and failing and closing?

 

“I love you, Michael. I’m sorry.”

 

The door slammed into place. Luke slammed into the door. He heard Michael slam to the floor. He _felt_ his heart slam through his rib cage and burn in the fire and mess he left behind. His heart lay as ash beside the home he couldn’t stay in, the life he couldn’t keep. His heart stayed with the boy who had kept it in one piece for so long. His heart stayed with the boy who it belonged to. And Luke left it there.

* * *

 

There was nothing worse than waking up alone, Luke had learnt. Except there absolutely was. Because the cold that crept around his skin was nothing compared to the cold against his ears as he stared, mouth agape, at the building. Because the untouched pillow he woke up beside was nothing compared to the untouched and neglected flowerpots he could see peeking out from the balcony of one particular fifth floor apartment. Luke was lost and drowning in his loneliness for so long, that home felt like a tidal wave intent on dragging him down. And he fucking loved it.

But home couldn’t feel like home until he saw _him_ again.

**Author's Note:**

> well... that's it! I hope you loved it. Please comment/leave kudos if you do because I'm still very new and approval is everything. 
> 
> honestly i started this with the intention of it being more light-hearted than Michael's, holy shit did that take a turn. (also I hope it's not too confusing right at the end - Luke's stood outside the apartment building if you hadn't figured it out. shout out to setting up for part 3).


End file.
